


Free and Gay

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Drama, mild slash themes, though nothing explicit)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:37:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some soldiers of Gondor celebrate Yule at Cair Andros.</p><p>(Warning: mild slash themes, though nothing explicit)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free and Gay

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Faramir sighed happily and rested his head against the tree trunk that served as chair for both him and Boromir. "Do you miss it?" He nodded westward to the distant White Tower. "The feasting and the dancing you could have enjoyed in Minas Tirith, if you had gone to father instead of here?"

Boromir looked over at his brother, newly second lieutenant in the Ithilien company, and shrugged. "I have meat and wine here, and fresh-baked bread for once" -- both brothers grimmaced at the thought of twice-baked battle biscuits -- "and I prefer Amroth's horn to a court musician's harp any day."

"You say nothing of Taureth, or Morwen, or --"

"Hold your tongue," Boromir said. "Don't think that you can forever escape their piercing looks. They will fix their attention on you soon enough, Steward's son."

"Are they truly that bad?" Faramir winked playfully at Boromir. "You always slip away before the end of any dance; I find it hard to believe you find their attention **that** distasteful."

Boromir felt his face redden. "The daughters are pleasant enough, I suppose, but the mothers and aunts! They eye me like a piece of meat on a hook in a butcher's shop."

Faramir chuckled. "Well, they do say you are quite beefy..."

Boromir groaned and stood up quickly. "Enough talk; we can do that any time." He offered Faramir a hand and, after the younger brother gained his feet, they walked toward the dancers. This is why they had come: the three captains of the regiments from Anórien, Cair Andros, and Ithilien, their lieutenants and squires and escorts, twenty men all told. They came to share the news and plan the next spring's campaigns, but mostly to drink and to dance.

The outer chain of men -- all from Cair Andros and Ithilien -- linked arms in a large circle, spinning around while Anórien danced within. It was as constant as Eärendil's voyage from West to East and back again, as predictable as the turning of the seasons. Celebgond and Ithilmir, the non-commissioned rangers who had ridden with Faramir's contingent, let Boromir pass and their lieutenant took his place between them. Once inside, Boromir joined the intricate play of walking in a crouch around the men whose kicks circled over his head.

Could he ever tell Faramir why he enjoyed this dance so much more than the courtly waltzes he faced in Minas Tirith? He did not leave the hall early to enjoy the affections of a maiden, quite the opposite. It was to escape them -- and the suffocating reminders that, whatever he did with his battle-sword, if he could not master his other weapon, force himself to bed one of them and produce an heir he would be remembered for that failure and naught else. Preferring horns to harps, indeed! He would rather face a den of orcs than a pack of lord's daughters, any day of the year.

As the circle spun around him he saw Faramir look at him, his eyes no longer filled with mirth. Seeing his brother's puzzled expression, Boromir realized that he had was crouching in the center of the circle, still as a cat. He breathed in deeply, filled his lungs with the wintry air, and began:

_All ye soldiers join together,_  
Dance 'neath tree-limb or on heather;  
If Yule-week finds you free and gay,  
So through next year shall you stay.

Yes. Yule was not for worries, any more than it was for talking. Yule was for dancing, and for singing, and for forgetting the demands of the coming months. Here, in the festive woods of Cair Andros, he could find some semblance of peace. Boromir let the stomp of heavy boots and the heady scent of pine fill his head, driving out all else.


End file.
